


Antistar

by uumuu



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe, Drabble Sequence, Possession
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-30
Updated: 2015-10-30
Packaged: 2018-04-28 23:52:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5110070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uumuu/pseuds/uumuu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eärendil isn't alone on his nightly journey.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Antistar

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sassynails](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sassynails/gifts).



> A huge thanks to amyfortuna for betaing!

“You will become me,” the voice said, punctual, as Vingilot rose in the evening sky, tearing through the blood-hued brilliance that spread into the clouds and tinged the sea. The statement had both the grandiosity of a promise and the weight of an ineluctable truth to it.

“Do you honestly believe it is only the light of the Trees you carry? Do you not feel the pulse of fire?”

“Be gone,” Eärendil said tightly, staring straight in front of him at the stars which welcomed him among them, in the upper airs.

In the early days of his travels, the voice had quieted down when he bid it to. He had been seized with wonder at the spectacle all around him then, every star twinkling with a story to tell. But no more. The Silmaril leapt merrily on his brow whenever he spoke, and the stars hushed.

The voice was amused. “Do cast the Silmaril away if you want me to be gone.”

The voice, an intimate whisper, trickled directly in Eärendil's ear, slithered down his skin and made its way to his brain almost as a physical thing. He shivered. There wasn't _just_ a voice any more. 

“They pretend they can keep me locked up, and away, tucked securely in their own darkness. But who can contain fire?”

“You are dead,” Eärendil said, but it sounded weak.

The other paid his words no heed. “You have my father's blood, too.”

*

“Fëanáro?” Námo's voice rumbled, uttering the name with solemn slowness. “He is in my Halls, and shall tarry there, unto the end of the world.”

“He cannot leave them, ever?”

Námo looked down at Eärendil as if he were not in his right mind. “He cannot. He shall not be permitted to walk the earth ere it is remade.”

“But –” _But he's there, next to me, every night. He's_ seeping into _me. I cannot endure it any longer._

None of that made it to sound. Námo interrupted him. 

“That is the Valar's judgement.”

*

“You are lonely up here. So very lonely. I know.”

Eärendil stood with his hands on the railing, looking out at space. The voice washed down on him like a kind breeze in the deathly stillness, filling it, filling him.

“You have been on this journey so many times already.”

He had. His nightly journey was by then just a stale repetition.

“Steering this vessel across the night sky is a burden to you. The Silmaril is heavy on your brow.”

Eärendil's hand clawed into the wood of the railings. “I will not give it back to you,” he said, but he knew it was a vacuous statement.

“Exactly, that is not necessary. _I_ will always be with you,” the other retorted. 

Eärendil felt relieved. 

*

“Eärendil.”

Eärendil's head shot up. He blinked several times, as if the voice had just awoken him from a dream. He was at the foot of Elwing's tower. The sun blazed at its peak, and the call of sea-bids rang loud in his ears (a little _too_ loud; he had never liked the sea). In front of him was his mother, but he was confused – why did his mother have blonde hair?

Idril eyed him pensively, almost worriedly. “Are you feeling well?”

Idril had travelled all the way to Araman to meet him, a journey that continued to be unpleasant and memory-laden for her. He had to at least pretend to pay attention to her. “Yes, of course. I am fine, Mother.”

Idril nodded, and resumed talking. He could hardly keep track of her words. He was, in fact, annoyed. His mother should have had silver hair.

“Do you remember your great-uncle?” he suddenly asked, interrupting whatever she was saying.

Idril's face fell, and twisted to express both shock and hurt at once. “No,” she replied, curtly.

He had to suppress a wry grin at the animosity in her voice.

*

“We have been together for such a long time already, have we not?”

Eärendil sat on the prow of the ship, legs dangling out in the vast, crushing nothingness of the night sky. There was no _'be gone'_ anymore. He leant eagerly into him. The presence at his left was homelike, it was a support and a refuge. He was enveloped in it, cocooned. He had never felt more at ease in his whole life. He nodded. 

“And it is good, is it not?”

He nodded again. He couldn't imagine making that journey, every night, without _him_.

“I told you you would come to favour me. Embrace me. Plant your roots in me.”

Roots. Something to be bound to, not merely a temporary shelter.

He sighed contentedly.

*

Elwing welcomed him, flew effortlessly towards him, her silver-and-white wings glimmering against the clear dawn. She landed softly near the mast, which stood tall with its blown up sail. She smiled at him and made to throw her arms around his neck, but stopped abruptly.

“Eärendil, dear, your eyes –”

“My eyes?” he echoed as Elwing's voice trailed off. He drew her into his arms. 

“They glow, as if you had been born at the time of the Trees.”

He smirked. “They might. It _is_ the light of the Trees that shines on my brow.”

Elwing looked a little dubious, but nodded and sank into his embrace.

He held her, but looked fixedly over the railing of the vessel. He had to be exceptionally careful in her presence. She had inherited a smattering of her grandmother's powers, and maybe she could guess. Then again, the light was not something that could be easily concealed. Other changes she didn't seem to have noticed. As Vingilot descended towards Araman, he looked at his image reflected in the motionless waters of the sea. His cheekbones were more prominent, his lips thinner, and his eyes were no longer pale blue under their glow. They were subtle changes, but undeniable proof that he now drew his lifeblood from _his_ light, from _him_.

Nobody had noticed, nobody would notice. They were, after all, family traits.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry for the many non-requested characters.


End file.
